THE HORUS HERESY BOOK 6 PDF
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Check your diary, and weigh up the alternatives. We encourage our readers to voice their opinions and argue their points. We expect disagreement. We do not expect our readers to turn on each other. In this part of the story, Zahariel, selected as a candidate Space Marine, is accepted as a Dark Angel.
A future schism within the Legion is intimated towards the end of the book. Characterised in earlier publications as clandestine and inscrutable, the book constitutes a major development of the entire canon of the setting with the revelation that the Legion's Primarch is actually a pair of twins, Alpharius and Omegon. The book also features the Imperial Army, the regular unmodified human fighting force of the Imperium, covering several officers and their units.
The human John Grammaticus is introduced as a prominent Cabal member. Early in the Heresy, the Traitor Word Bearers Legion is tasked with organising and leading the invasion; they plan to use an immense, secretly commissioned warship, the Furious Abyss, to spearhead the surprise attack. They become aware of the powerful capital ship 's true purpose, and engage in long pursuit; they will seek to prevent the Furious Abyss from participating in the invasion and from reaching Macragge.
Mechanicum: Knowledge is power Mechanicum is the first book in the series not to focus on either the Primarchs or their Space Marines Legions. The novel centres on the eponymous "Mechanicum", a cult of machine-worshipping technologists based on the real-life planet Mars and which serves as the chief engineering authority in the nascent Imperium. The machinations of Horus and the Chaos-worshipping Traitors affects the Martian cult as much as every other Imperial organisation, leading to a civil war on Mars itself.
As the Mechanicum is the sole power responsible for all civil and military technology in the Imperium, the conflict has vast implications for whichever side of the broader intergalactic civil war receives Mars' crucial support. Tales of Heresy Tales of Heresy is a collection of short stories introducing and expanding upon numerous threads within the greater happenings of the Heresy.
Most stories are concurrent with the Heresy, with some occurring in the years prior. It includes two stories that take place on Terra, one of which occurs long before the Heresy and adds to the background regarding the Imperial Truth ; another entry in the compilation is a Primarch origin story, covering the contentious circumstances under which the gladiatorial Primarch Angron takes command of the 12th Space Marine Legion, which he renames from the "Warhounds" to the "World Eaters".
The book contains seven stories by various authors;  several stories relate to full-length novels in the series. Book 11 to Book 20[ edit ] It tells two stories: one concerns the effort of Primarch Lion El'Jonson and a small group of Dark Angels to deny a forge world a planet devoted to manufacturing, especially of weapons to Horus' forces; the other is the story of Luther Lion El'Jonson's second , Zahariel El'Zurias by now a full Space Marine , and a Dark Angels contingent sent back to Caliban , the Dark Angels Legion home world.
They get involved in the fight against a growing insurgency that seeks to free the planet from under the Imperium's thumb. A Thousand Sons: All is dust Following a reprimand by the Emperor for dabbling in sorcery , Magnus and his Legion secretly continue to study the forbidden subjects.
Then, around the time of Horus' corruption Book 2 , Magnus learns through sorcery of his brother's impending betrayal.
However, he overreaches with his powers and damages the vital and secret project the Emperor is undertaking Book 1 , endangering the safety of Terra itself in the process. The Space Wolves, accompanied by other Imperial forces, are to bring Magnus and his Legion to Terra to account for themselves.
It is a look at the war behind the war, the covert operations undertaken by the opposing sides in order to influence the visible conflict. Specifically, it deals with a plan by a secret Imperial organisation, the Officio Assassinorum, to eliminate Horus; an "Execution Force" consisting of operatives from all of the Officio's disciplines, and led by top-rated sniper Eristede Kell , is tasked with the mission.
There have been several previous unsuccessful attempts against Horus' life, and this gives a high-ranking officer of the Traitor Word Bearers Legion the idea to field a nemesis weapon of his own: a highly specialised assassin, who is to be used in an audacious scheme to kill the Emperor.
Decades before the start of the rebellion they become heretics relative to the Imperial Truth by introducing religious worship.
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This results in public and humiliating censure of Lorgar and the entire assembled Legion, by the Emperor himself. The despairing Lorgar is subsequently swayed by two of his most trusted lieutenants, who are in secret allegiance with Chaos; eventually both Primarch and Legion covertly embrace and promote the Primordial Truth , many years before Horus' corruption.
The story is largely told from the point of view of Argel Tal , a Captain of the Word Bearers, who becomes commander of a Chaos- possessed elite Legion unit.
Prospero Burns: The Wolves unleashed Prospero Burns is part of the story arc of Book 12 , however it follows a different but related timeline.
The story begins more than a century before the Space Wolves-led mission to Prospero , and the concurrent start of the Heresy. On the surface it is his story; the important understory concerns the long-term machinations of Chaos, whose aim is the destruction of both Space Wolves and Thousand Sons. While this confrontation is taking place, Horus' previously covert rebellion becomes visible Book 3.
The novel also adds background to Horus' fall and to the planning of the Heresy campaign by Chaos and its forces. Age of Darkness Age of Darkness is a compilation of nine short stories by various authors.
The stories present various facets of the unfolding conflict, as suspicion, insecurity, and paranoia spread through the galaxy on the wake of the Warmaster's betrayal. Subjects include: a Primarch prepares for the end of the Imperium; a Traitor PSYOP topples an Imperial planet; an unusual diplomatic contest will decide which side will be chosen by a world on the fence; a non-combatant may be a rebel agent or a herald of unpalatable truths for the Imperium; a Loyalist Space Marine in a Traitor Legion holds his own against his erstwhile brothers.
Several of the included stories are linked through continuity; some are also prequels or sequels to stories in other series books.
The Outcast Dead: The truth lies within The Outcast Dead is the first novel-length story in the series to take place almost entirely on Terra. It covers a relatively short period, starting several months before Magnus ' catastrophic psychic visit at the Imperial Palace Book 12 , and concluding several months after this event.
The unauthorised visit is central to the story: apart from damaging the Emperor's top secret project Book 1 and the planet's defense, it massively disrupts Terra's long-range communications infrastructure. The ensuing isolation and confusion cause indecision and delays for the Loyalist side.
The story's main character is Kai Zulane , previously a gifted Imperial astropath attached to the Ultramarines Legion. He unwittingly becomes the keeper of a secret that could decide the victor in the developing galactic civil war.
The secret has additional implications regarding the Heresy's conclusion and the future course of the Imperium of Man.
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However, operatives and the Primarch of the Alpha Legion play a prominent role. Loken walked across the chamber and retrieved his bolter, hoisting it in his left fist with a clatter. Two Luna Wolves entered the chamber behind him, and Loken briskly pointed them off into the left-hand colonnade with a gesture of his sword. Voices answered him. It was getting in the way. At the end of the chamber, past the crumpled, leaking body of the Invisible he had disembowelled, sixteen broad marble steps led up to a stone doorway.
The splendid stone frame was carved with complex linen fold motifs. Loken ascended the steps slowly. Mottled washes of light cast spastic flickers through the open doorway. There was a remarkable stillness. Even the din of the fight engulfing the palace all around seemed to recede.
Loken could hear the tiny taps made by the blood dripping off his outstretched chainsword onto the steps, a trail of red beads up the white marble. He stepped through the doorway. The inner walls of the tower rose up around him. A hundred metres in diameter, a kilometre 25 Horus Rising tall. No, more than that.
Peering over, Loken saw as much tower drop away into the depths of the earth as stood proud above him. He circled slowly, gazing around.
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Great windows of glass or some other transparent substance glazed the tower from top to bottom between the ring platforms, and through them the light and fury of the war outside flared and flashed. No noise, just the flickering glow, the sudden bursts of radiance.
He followed the platform round until he found a sweep of curved stairs, flush with the tower wall, that led up to the next level. He began to ascend, platform to platform, scanning for any blurs of light that might betray the presence of more Invisibles.
No sound, no life, no movement except the shimmer of light from outside the windows as he passed them. Five floors now, six. Loken suddenly felt foolish. The tower was probably empty. Except… its ground-level approach had been so furiously protected. He looked up, pushing his sensors hard. A third of a kilometre above him, he fancied he caught a brief sign of movement, a partial heat-lock.
Heavy fighting. Are you still there? There was something in this tower with him. At the very top, something was waiting. The penultimate deck. From above came a soft creaking and 26 Dan Abnett grinding, like the sails of a giant windmill. Loken paused. At this height, through the wide panes of glass, he was afforded a view out across the palace and the High City. A sea of luminous smoke, underlit by widespread firestorms. Some buildings glowed pink, reflecting the light of the inferno.
Weapons flashed, and energy beams danced and jumped in the dark. Overhead, the sky was full of fire too, a mirror of the ground. But had it found the throat? He mounted the last flight of steps, his grip on the weapons tight. The entire structure creaked and slid, turning slightly one way then another as it responded phototropically to the blooms of light outside in the night.
On one side of the platform, its back to the great windows, sat a golden throne. It was a massive object, a heavy plinth of three golden steps rising to a vast gilt chair with a high back and coiled arm rests.
The throne was empty. Loken lowered his weapons.
He saw that the tower top turned so that the throne was always facing the light. A solitary figure stood away to his left, hands clasped behind its back, staring out at the spectacle of war. The figure turned. It was an elderly man, dressed in a floor-length mauve robe. His hair was thin and white, his face thinner still.
He stared at Loken with glittering, miserable eyes. You must know that. You have my promise. He had switched off and sheathed his sword, but he kept his bolter up to cover the robed figure. You cheerfully blaspheme in this royal place. The Emperor is the Emperor Undisputed, saviour and protector of the race of man. Made like a giant, malformed and ugly. No man would wage war upon his fellow man like this.
You murdered our ambassadors. You brought this upon yourself. We are charged with the reunification of mankind, throughout the stars, in the name of the Emperor. We seek to establish compliance amongst all the fragmentary and disparate strands.
Most greet us like the lost brothers we are. You resisted. It saddens me that we believe the same words, the very same ones, but value them so differently. That difference has led directly to this bloodshed. Yet you did not.
Why did you insist on bringing us to ruin? Are we such a threat to you? So you said, but in serving your fine truth, invader, you make yourself immoral. I assumed you were, as you entered this place ahead of your troops. I was waiting for the overall commander. I will submit to him, and to him alone. Will you not even do me that honour? I would stay here, until your lord and master comes in person to accept my submission.
Fetch him. The elderly man took a step or two backwards, fear upon his face. Ten Astartes warriors, the blue heat of their whining jump pack burners shimmering the air behind them. Their power armour was black, trimmed with white. First in, last out. One by one, they came in to land on the edge of the ring platform, deactivating their jump packs.
You beat us to it after all.
He set his vox to transmit. Ekaddon looked at him again. His visor lenses were stern and unreflective jet glass set in the black metal of his helmet mask. He bowed slightly. Or are we just barbarians? They waited for a minute or two for a signal response. Astartes attack ships, their engines glowing, streaked past the windows.
The light from huge detonations sheeted the southern skies and slowly died away. Loken watched the criss-cross shadows play across the ring platform in the dying light. He started. He suddenly realised why the elderly man had insisted so furiously that the commander should come in person to 30 Dan Abnett this place.
He clamped his bolter to his side and began to stride towards the empty throne. Where is he really? Is he invisible too? There was a loud bang. He swayed, his robes shredded and on fire, and pitched over the edge of the platform. Limbs limp, his torn garments flapping, he fell away like a stone down the open drop of the palace tower.
Ekaddon lowered his bolt pistol. A blemish of light, almost perfect, but not so perfect that shadows behaved correctly around it, recoiled in the seat. This is a trap. Those four words were the next that Loken was going to utter. He never got the chance. The golden throne trembled and broadcast a shock-wave of invisible force.
It was a power like that which the elite guard had wielded, but a hundred times more potent. It slammed out in all directions, casting Loken and all the Catulan off their feet like corn sheaves in a hurricane. The windows of the tower top shattered outwards in a multicoloured blizzard of glass fragments. Most of Catulan Reaver Squad simply vanished, blown out of the tower, arms flailing, on the bow-wave of energy.
One struck a steel spar on his way out. Back snapped, his body tumbled away into the night like a broken doll. Ekaddon managed to grab hold of another spar as he was launched backwards. He clung on, plasteel digits sinking into the metal for purchase, legs trailing out behind him horizontally as air and glass and gravitic energy assaulted him. He slid across the ring platform towards the open fall, his white armour shrieking as it left deep grooves in the onyx surface.
He went over the edge, over the sheer drop, but the wall of force carried him on like a leaf across the hole and slammed him hard against the far lip of the ring. He grabbed on, his arms over the lip, his legs dangling, held in place as much by the shock pressure as by the strength of his own, desperate arms.
Almost blacking out from the relentless force, he fought to hold on. Inchoate light, green and dazzling, sputtered into being on the platform in front of his clawing hands.
The teleport flare became too bright to behold, and then died, revealing a god standing on the edge of the platform. The god was a true giant, as large again to any Astartes warrior as an Astartes was to a normal man. His armour was white gold, like the sunlight at dawn, the work of master artificers. Many symbols covered its surfaces, the chief of which was the motif of a single, staring eye fashioned across the breastplate.
Robes of white cloth fluttered out behind the terrible, haloed figure. Above the breastplate, the face was bare, grimacing, perfect in every dimension and detail, suffused in radiance.
So beautiful. So very beautiful. For a moment, the god stood there, unflinching, beset by the gale of force, but unmoving, facing it down. Then he raised the storm bolter in his right hand and fired into the tumult. One shot. The echo of the detonation rolled around the tower. There was a choking scream, half lost in the uproar, and then the uproar itself stilled abruptly. The wall of force died away. The hurricane faded.
Splinters of glass tinkled as they rained back down onto the platform. No longer impelled, Ekaddon crashed back down against the blown-out sill of the window frame.
His grip was secure. He clawed his way back inside and got to his feet. With the pressure lapsed, Loken found he could no longer support himself. Hands grappling, he began to slide back over the lip where he had been hanging. He slipped off the edge. A strong hand grabbed him around the wrist and hauled him up onto the platform.
Loken rolled over, shaking. He looked back across the ring at the golden throne. It was a smoking ruin, its secret mechanisms exploded from within. Loken looked up at the god standing over him. The god smiled. Loken had taken a robe down from a wall peg and was putting it on. Ask a better question. What is he like? His tone was stone hard. He is the first and foremost of all primarchs. And I think I 33 Horus Rising take offence when a mortal voices his name without respect or title.
Remember that. Various chroniclers and recorders had, of course, been accompanying Imperial forces since the commencement of the Great Crusade, two hundred sidereal years earlier. But they had been individuals, mostly volunteers or accidental witnesses, gathered up like road dust on the advancing wheels of the crusader hosts, and the records they had made had been piecemeal and irregular. They had commemorated events by happenstance, sometimes inspired by their own artistic appetites, sometimes encouraged by the patronage of a particular primarch or lord commander, who thought it fit to have his deeds immortalised in verse or text or image or composition.
The fledgling Council of Terra evidently agreed wholeheartedly, for the bill inaugurating the foundation and sponsorship of the remembrancer order had been countersigned by no less a person than Malcador the Sigillite, First Lord of the Council.
Recruited from all levels of Terran society — and from the societies of other key Imperial worlds — simply on the merit of their creative gifts, the remembrancers were quickly accredited and assigned, and despatched 35 Horus Rising to join all the key expedition fleets active in the expanding Imperium.
At that time, according to War Council logs, there were four thousand two hundred and eighty-seven primary expedition fleets engaged upon the business of the crusade, as well as sixty thousand odd secondary deployment groups involved in compliance or occupation endeavours, with a further three hundred and seventy-two primary expeditions in regroup and refit, or resupplying as they awaited new tasking orders.
Almost four point three million remembrancers were sent abroad in the first months following the ratification of the bill.
No one had questioned the choice of First Primarch Horus as Warmaster to act in his stead. They simply questioned the need for a proxy at all. The formation of the Council of Terra had come as more unpleasant news.
Since the inception of the Great Crusade, the War Council, formed principally of the Emperor and the primarchs, had been the epicentre of Imperial authority.
Now, this new body supplanted it, taking up the reins of Imperial governance, a body composed of civilians instead of warriors. For no crime of their own, the remembrancers, most of them eager and excited at the prospect of the work ahead, found themselves the focus of that discontent everywhere they went.
They were not welcomed, and they found their commission hard to fulfil. Only later, when the aexector tributi administrators began to visit expedition fleets, did the discontent find a better, truer target to exercise itself upon. None of them had known what to expect. Most had never been off-world before. They were virgin and innocent, over-eager and gauche. When they arrived, the fleet of the 63rd Expedition still encircled the capital world.
Aid ships were flocking down from the fleet to the surface, and hosts of the Imperial army had been deployed to effect police actions. He declared it only right and proper, and sympathetic to the desires of a people they wished to bring to compliance rather than crush wholesale. Voices were raised in objection, particularly as the ceremonial interment of Hastur Sejanus had only just taken place, along with the formal burials of the battle-brothers lost at the High City.
Several Legion officers, including Abaddon himself, refused point blank to allow his forces to attend any funeral rites for the killer of Sejanus. The Warmaster understood this, but fortunately there were other Astartes amongst the expedition who could take their place.
He did this so that the Luna Wolves would not have to tarnish their honour. By order of the Warmaster, bending to the will of the chief captains and, most especially, the Mournival, no remembrancers were permitted to attend.
He made a face. No wonder it fell so easily. He sat down on a lounger and put his feet up, settling the glass on his wide chest. He sipped again, grimacing, and rested his head back. Karkasy was a tall man, generously upholstered in flesh.
His garments were expensive and well-tailored to suit his bulk. His round face was framed by a shock of black hair. Keeler sighed and looked up from her work. I have been observing the Astartes. I mean to say, very big in every 38 Dan Abnett measurement by which one might quantify a man. What did you expect? Not such a rank, pervasive reek.
They are our immortal champions, after all. I expected them to smell rather better. Fragrant, like young gods. Although that might be found wanting here.
How may I begin…? He waited for a response, but Keeler was too occupied with her work. Come here. She held out her picter. Take it for repair. And fetch me my spare units. It plodded away. Keeler poured herself a glass of wine from the decanter and went to lean at the rail.
Three hundred and fifty men and women gathered around formally laid tables, servitors moving amongst them, offering drinks. A gong was sounding. Sindermann yet again. The topic is promulgation of the living truth. She was tall, lean-limbed and blonde, her face pale and slender.
She 39 Horus Rising wore chunky army boots and fatigue breeches, with a black combat jacket open to show a white vest, like a cadet officer, but the very masculinity of her chosen garb made her feminine beauty all the more apparent. Keeler snorted. It had become a daily routine for him to make a pass at her.
Do you like men? He stared up at the heroic figures painted on the roof of the mezzanine. He had no idea what they were supposed to represent. Some great act of triumph that clearly had involved a great deal of standing on the bodies of the slain with arms thrust into the sky whilst shouting. I imagined so much.
I thought I would be uplifted, and thus produce my finest works. I want to see the war-zone first-hand. They resent the likes of us.
Keeler nodded. The hatch slid open and a figure joined them in the quiet mezzanine chamber. Mersadie Oliton went directly to the table where the decanter sat, poured herself a drink, and knocked it back. Tenth Company Captain Loken? How did you get authorisation? When I went to see him at the appointed time, his equerry turned up instead and told me Torgaddon was busy.
Torgaddon had sent the equerry to take me to see Loken. Mersadie nodded. Made me feel this small. No, not at all. He smelled of oils. Very sweet and clean. Vipus was dressed in black breeches, boots and a loose vest, and his truncated arm was very evident. The missing hand had been bagged in sterile jelly, and nanotic serums injected to reform the wrist so it would accept an augmetic implant in a week or so. Loken could still see the scars where Vipus had used his chainsword to amputate his own hand.
Vipus shook his head. The target dummies and armature blades went dead around him, and the upper hemisphere of the cage slid into the roof space as the lower hemisphere retracted into the deck beneath the mat.
Tarik Torgaddon entered the blade-school chamber, dressed in fatigues and a long coat of silver mail. His features were saturnine, his hair black. He grinned at Vipus as the latter slipped out past him. Fit to be rebonded. Carry on. Torgaddon chuckled at his own quip and climbed the short 42 Dan Abnett steps to face Loken in the middle of the canvas mat.
He paused at a blade rack outside the opened cage, selected a long-handled axe, and drew it out, hacking the air with it as he advanced. Take a guard. It was all-steel, blade and handle both, and the cutting edge of the axe head had a pronounced curve. He raised it in a hunting stance and took up position facing Torgaddon.As the great red orb of the sun rose in the north, hot, dry winds brought the sour fragrance of bitter blossoms from the tomb-littered valleys of long-dead emperors.
What makes you think like this? Vengeful Spirit: The Battle of Molech No, not at all.
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A howling shriek burst from its throat as it died, and again Solomon was repulsed by the pleasure he heard in its cry. Perhaps they were all frail and beautiful.
If we encounter a person, a society in this cosmos that disagrees with us, but is sound of itself, what right do we have to destroy it? They walked out of the audience chamber and along one of the great spinal hallways of the flagship, an arch-roofed, buttressed 51 Horus Rising canyon three decks high, like the nave of an ancient cathedral fane elongated to a length of five kilometres.
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